


Geronimo

by SylverLining



Category: Titan AE (2000)
Genre: Consensual Violence, Drabbles, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:43:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extremely dysfunctional Korso/Preed drabbles which may or may not be crack. Involves extreme sexual violence, manipulation, weird Akrennian biology, messing with Stith's head, sadism, masochism, and McDonalds. Rated for sexual horrors and awful language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

It's not so about much sex as it is remembering.

He'd never call it making love, love has nothing to do with it. It's all about power, domination - consensual of course. Korso's still got some honor left, torn and stained with God-knows-what as it is. Rape is for pathetic, scum-sucking cockroaches sunk so low they have to trap and hurt someone weaker than them; guys like that, every time their black cherry pops in prison and the cellblock echoes with their screams, he hopes their victims hear it and feel a little warm and fuzzy inside.

It feels a little like his Academy days. Wrestling and hand-to-hand combat training. The only physical contact he got was fueled by aggression, kicking the other guy's ass before he got his, letting out his frustration and fury and fear ( _you're training in zero gravity because someday soon there won't be any)_  in a flurry of pummeling fists and snarled, gasping breaths.

So when he slams Preed against the wall and pins him to the steel and feels the sinewy, surprising strength in those too-long, spindly arms, he's right back there. The sense memory floods his head and suddenly he can smell the purified, antiseptic air and the coppery human sweat, he can hear the instructor barking at him to correct his form. And he feels like if he looked over into the corner of his eye he could see the surreal view outside the window. The field is green outside and there's a heavy electricity in the air, a coming storm.

But it's Earth, he's home, and if it takes beating the crap out of an Akrennian pervert and getting as good as he gives to take him there, he's glad to go.


	2. Remembering

Korso tried being gentle once - as gentle as he could be, anyway. Those long, bony-angled limbs looked too fragile, they might snap right in two and then he'd have just one more flavor of guilt keeping him up at night.

But that's a mistake. Soon as he pulled that last punch, the moment he didn't vicegrip-seize with all his strength, Preed is in his face with his lips pulled back like an angry junkyard dog.

"Don't you dare!"

Then the wind is knocked out of him and he's flung to the floor in a disoriented heap with a thrashing demon on his chest, long fingernails clawing at his collarbone and jaw, drawing blood, before going still. He's stunned for a moment, fighting for breath, and there's a tense, hot burst of silence as Korso lays on the floor and gasps, and Preed leans down close and whispers under his foul breath.

"Fight back, love..." he purrs, soft and low and dangerous. "Or I'll make you." He runs the sharp, stinging tip of his nasal horn along the soft underside of the human's stubbled jaw, drawing another fine trickle of blood.

Korso listens. He fights like he's fighting for his life, and with every hot, painful, desperate breath he's never felt more alive.


	3. Biology

Korso doesn't know how to kiss him. Not that he's all that big a fan of kissing or any kind of tenderness, but he'd at least like something to do with his mouth in relation to Preed's aside from biting and gritting his teeth. He has no idea how Akrennians kiss with those big honking snouts and triceratops horns, he can't quite get the mechanics of it all to make sense in his head.

So one day he just flat-out asks what the fuck they  _do_ , what they like, what the human equivalent is.

And Preed, of course, tells him. Shows him. Gleefully, with not a little of the gloating smirk Korso's so used to and will make him pay for later, after the 'pleasure' part is done and it's time to play with 'pain.'

Some of it is innocuous enough, involving the ears and lips and little winglike membranes across the underarms. And there are at least three acts Korso swears up and down he will never,  _ever_  perform, no matter how drunk Preed gets him. But things don't get really interesting until they start discussing a major erroneous zone Korso never would have imagined - the back of the thick Akrennian neck.

"It's a... sort of inflatable gland," Preed explains in an oddly scholastic fashion, every bit the evolved worldly gentleman who sees sexual expression as a necessary biological process. "Think of it like a very tough, very elastic balloon - the more, ah,  _excited_  we grow, the more the backs of our necks inflate, a clear and obvious sign for any prospective mate. And as it inflates with fluid, the pressure builds up inside, until the tension is nearly unbearable - until the point of orgasm, when the neck sac deflates dramatically, releasing its built-up endorphines and hormones. A satisfied Akrennian has a slender neck indeed."  
 **  
**Korso stares. "So your neck isn't always as thick and... bulbous?"

"Oh, heavens, no. Not if I'm lucky."

"But I've never seen you with..." His thick eyebrows furrowed together. "Oh. Then you've always been-"

"Yes, virtually 24/7, to use an Old Earth approximation." An exaggerated shrug and languid sigh. "It's a blessing and a curse."

"But we've done just about everything I can-"

"Yes, most enjoyably, but for my people, not completely. You see, the Akrennian climax is reached only when a willing partner - I can't do this myself,  _believe me,_  I've tried - applies sudden and significant pressure to the aroused partner's neck. This immediately releases all pressure in a wave of pleasure that overwhelms the senses, and leads to immediate unconsciousness. It roughly translates into human as 'The Happy Coma.'"

Korso can't quite wrap his brain around this, so Preed keeps talking, all too happy to expound on one of his favorite subjects. "Interestingly, it's the easiest way to render an Akrennian unconscious - our heads are notoriously hard." He knocked his knuckles against the metal plate in his head with a dull clinking noise. "I don't mind revealing this particular little weakness to you since... if you ever resorted to it, I'd wake up  _eternally_  grateful."

Korso's still staring, looking for any kind of tell that he's being - appropriately - fucked around with. "You have got to be shitting me."

"Cross my heart! I'd be glad to return the favor, but if I remember human skeletal structure correctly, this could cause... far more damage than even I intend to inflict."

He falls silent and lapses back into his demented Cheshire-cat grin, while Korso finally remembers how to form words again.

"You're telling me... that real Akrennian sex involves knocking you out - by  _snapping your neck_ at the end?"  
 **  
"** If you want to put it so indelicately, yes."

Now Korso can't keep the shit-eating grin off his face. "I can do that." He leans forward - then something occurs to him. "Speaking of... are all Akrennians such - so damn  _violent_  in the sack? Not that I'm complaining, but... damn. It's like a war zone."

"Oh, no. That's just one of my personal quirks."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing my headcanon of Preed surviving the events of the movie, and fics that come after.


	4. Torture

Stith raises one bony eye ridge at her captain's black eye, swollen shut and turning green around the edges.

"The hell do you guys  _do_  to one another in those 'senior staff training sessions?'" She's sure that the bandage across Preed's thick neck and that dent in his metal head-plate hadn't been there yesterday. "Trying to kill each other?"

Preed slides his yellow eyes over to her, sweeping up and down. "Why no, dear," he says primly, dignity clashing with the wolfish smirk. "No, we're not trying to kill each other... but you're more than welcome to join us and see for yourself-"

 _"Preed."_  It's more of a warning grunt out of the corner of his mouth than anything, but Korso's fixed on him with squinty, painful clarity.

Stith glances from one to the other, feeling something in her stomach twist and start to come up her throat. Preed's grin widens and he sidles a little further into Korso's personal space - who studiedly ignores him.

"No, thank you," she chokes out, trying not to gag. "Forget I said anything - I mean that,  _forget it._  I really,  _really_  do not want to know." She shakes her head and stomps out the door like the hounds of Hell are after her.

Once she's gone, Korso finally turns and acknowledges Preed - and the approximately half-inch between them. "Try to enjoy this a little less, huh? Stith's not the only one here feeling sick to his stomach."

"Oh, but she's just so  _fun_  to play with!" Preed's fairly giggling, and Korso rolls his eyes. "You see, I have individual, very carefully cultivated forms of torture for everyone on this ship. With her, it's more... _cerebral_. You wouldn't understand."

"Cerebral. Yeah, I can see that. Just cut the bullshit when we're on duty." Korso goes back to ignoring him, and the slightest bit of a frown tugs at the corner of Preed's toothy grin.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can do that..." He says airily, hopping up to perch on the edge of the console to which Korso's firmly giving every bit of his attention. And gets no reaction... until he's finagled his way to having both spindly legs tight on either side of the human's torso, and caught his leather coat collar in one long-fingered hand.

"Why? Does it make you angry?"

Korso abandons whatever it is he's supposed to be looking at - Preed's sitting on the screen - and looks up into two beady yellow eyes with very dilated pupils. And now he's aware of a grinding sound in his ears - his own teeth. But he doesn't know if it's from irritation... or the other time his teeth clench and his blood begins to pound.

"For God's sake, you can wait until we dock, you eternally-horny bastard." Korso mutters around the steel plate pressing into his jaw as sharp rows of Akrennian teeth find his collarbone, hot breath moist and cloying against his skin. A shift, a flurry of motion and there are a pair of knobbly, elongated legs wrapped around his torso like a wrestling hold he learned a lifetime ago - and there's the nostalgia, the old familiarity amidst the alien -

_"No. Here. Now."_

"Goddammit, Preed, I'm warning you-" he's silenced by the alien, snoutlike mouth that suddenly clamps over his, all sharp teeth and strange, jutting jaw-shape that doesn't fit against a human face, they just jam together like puzzle pieces that are never meant to fit, but dammit, they're  _going to -_

Sitting up on that console, Preed's taller and he's got that coveted upper hand. And then there's an iron hand in the small of his back, wrenching him forward and another hand clawing at the back of his head and neck, tearing at his hair -

Preed pulls away and fixes sick yellow eyes into Korso's, sharp and inescapable as skewers. "Fight back..." he hisses. " _Or I'll make you._ Remember?" He waits, tightens his grip on Korso's neck, elsewhere... until the human's face grows a twisted grin that matches his own.

"You hesitated." He grates through a steel-trap smile. "Just for that, it's your turn."

Then he lets his death-grip on Korso go... and pushes his head down.

Moments later, out in the corridor, Stith punches the door back open and sticks her head inside.

"Oh, Captain, I forgot to ask, are we - aaaugh!  _AAAAUGH!"_

She whips around and charges back down the hall, desperate for something to wash out her eyes - preferably acid, to burn away that image that would definitely pop up in her nightmares for a long, long time.

She can't be sure, but she thinks she hears an explosive, raucous cackle follow her. Cerebral indeed.


	5. Brown Paper Bag

Some things were eternal. Some things survived the obliteration of a home, the end of a world in an explosion of sound and fury. For others, refugees, displaced drifters, cosmic castaways, these things were love, hope, bravery, honor, the inconquerable Human spirit.

For Korso, it was the Golden Arches. They said even cockroaches would survive a nuclear holocaust, maybe even the end of the world. Well, roaches hadn't - but Ronald McDonald had.

He had no idea how McDonalds was still around. He didn't know where the brown paper bags kept coming from, or the food for that matter. Especially now that all Earth animals - all cows, pigs, and endangered animal by-products - that went into a suspicious but delicious patty, were extinct. Come to think of it, the only Earth creatures left at all were humans - at least until the kid with the map turned up, if he ever did. Maybe McDonalds should have a new name: Soylent Green.

But Korso didn't really care. He didn't think about it any more than he had back home, where the meat was just as questionable and just as delicious. He preferred his intentionally chosen blissful ignorance.

It was enough just to shut his eyes and savor the mystery juices, marvel how even After Earth, the things tasted just the same, tasted just like home.

This time, he doesn't notice the sinuous, long-limbed thing that sidles up beside him and pours itself into the opposite chair.

"That smells delectable..." Preed's eye ridges furrow together and his nostrils flare. Korso looks up, and for once his first mate isn't looking back at him with a smirk or predatory leer - his attention is entirely focused on the grease-dripping, steaming patty in Korso's hands.

"Gitcher own," Korso growls with his mouth full, hunching protectively over his food. "Vendor's right over there." Then he casts the Akrennian a look. "Thought you had more sophisticated, prissy-ass tastes. 'Choo doing slumming with Old Earth fast food?"  
 **  
**Preed doesn't look at him; he's transfixed by the burger, coveting it like it's enough money to retire on to his own private moon. "Earth fast food?" He shakes his head and runs a long tongue over his lips. "No, no, no... unless my impeccable sense of smell is dreadfully wrong - and it never is - that is a very rare, precious... _delicious_  Akrennian delicacy."

Preed's starting to twitch, Korso can see his poker tells all over the place, and he guards his treasure in white paper a little more closely, like a prisoner with his last cigarette. He takes another big bite to stall for time.

Already his wheels are turning. This could be a very useful bargaining chip, that Akrennians could be bribed with hamburgers. Korso files that away in the back of his head for later exploitation. But right now, something else is bothering him.

"You have delicacies made from cows?" He asks warily, immediately realizing he doesn't want to know the answer.

"Cows?"

"Large four-legged Earth grazing mammals, raised for their milk - and more importantly, meat. All gone now, unless you got something similar."

And now Preed's got the shark-grin Korso knows so well, his real pokerface, and he can't help but be a little worried at what's going on behind it.

"Oh, no." Preed shakes his head. "Much smaller. More legs."

Korso lowers his burger and glares. "Bullshit!" he barks with his mouth full, accidentally spewing half-masticated fragments at Preed - who quickly plucks them up and pops them in his mouth. "You're just trying to con me out of a burger. It won't work."

Preed leans back in his chair and lounges with his hands behind his head, a study in loose-jointed nonchalance. "Suit yourself," he shrugs, giving a derisive sniff. "It doesn't even smell ripe. The larvae need to ferment for a good two more weeks at least, and the digestive fluids are diluted. Too much pus, not enough bile."

A long arm snakes across the table, a sharp finger pokes at an exposed bit of burger. "And look at this, it's not even finely ground, I see a thorax sticking out right there-"

" _Fuck."_  Korso groans, and slides the Big Mac across the table. "You win."  
 **  
**Preed gleefully snatches it up and stuffs it into his toothy, drooling mouth, paper and all. "Only if you're sure!" he mumbles around the God-knows-what.

Korso shuts his eyes and rubs his temples. Suddenly he has a headache.

"Yeah..." he mutters. "I'm sure."


	6. An Understanding

it's completely dysfunctional. Love never enters into the equation; Korso doesn't even know if there's an Akrennian word for it. Preed told him once that it was synonymous with "weak spot," but Korso doesn't really believe him. He only believes around a third of what comes out of the slippery fuck's mouth anyway.

Maybe less. Because the only things he really believes are what they never say. It's the way they'll instinctively stand with their backs to one another in a tense situation, how just a flick of a glance or a shifting of weight speaks volumes. The things they've never discussed. The reason they've been a team since the dust and shrapnel of what used to be Earth was just beginning to settle.

He wouldn't call it a trust. More of an understanding. An alliance, a kind of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' thing. And that manifests itself in loud, chaotic ways in shootouts and dogfights, and sticking together in the madding crowd.

And it shows in the much quieter stretches - maybe not literally quiet, Preed never shuts up - but when they're not fighting or running for their lives or making deals with the Devil. Both know what it's like to live on the very fringes, to scrape by by bare inches and do absolutely anything just to stay alive.

It's why there's no argument when Korso says he can't keep running anymore. That staying alive and maybe, just possibly having some security and peace of mind is more important than hanging on to a relic of a lost world, a stupid, desperate home that he's finally tired enough to give up on.

And he's just so tired.

He doesn't belong to anything anymore, and nothing belongs to him. It's the ultimate parental abandonment, and it's only in these quiet, small hours that he lets himself think this. When he lets himself relax his fanatical guard against being pigeonholed as just another piece of human garbage, a drifter, floating aimlessly and contributing to nothing.

Alone.

And he doesn't have to explain this to an Akrennian free agent who's more comfortable on a human ship without another member of his species around for lightyears. He doesn't need to spell out that he needs a distraction, someone to not ask questions and him him as hard as he can, and let him take out his anger and frustration and turn it into a kind of violent sexual therapy - and then roll off of him and leave without a word.

Or to keep him up talking, filling the silence with banter he likes to think is witty, debating the status quo or planning the next quasilegal venture to put money in their pockets and keep the ship running, keep themselves breathing.

Or to seize him in a vicegrip, long, wire-strong arms and legs clamping around him like a steel trap. Hold him immobile and possessed - and it  _is_ that possessiveness, that control that he only allows when there's no one else around to judge, and wonder why a confident, aggressive ex-captain with a pretty good bead on life would need to feel something even vaguely like belonging.

And he holds on right back. Because even if a slimy, perverted, treacherous alien is all he has left in the universe to hold onto, he'll take it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Phantom Planet song "Geronimo."  
> ("You don't want to make me blush, you want me unconscious...")


End file.
